Visionary
by stress
Summary: COMPLETE -- Jack Kelly can't sleep at night anymore.
1. smoke

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

* * *

**Visionary**

--

_Jack Kelly can't sleep at night anymore._

--

Sometimes, Jack figures, it's good for a fella to just get out and go it alone.

There's a ratty, dirty dogend tucked behind his ear, hidden beneath his too-long, greasy brown hair. He glances up, squinting at the offending sun, ink-stained fingers reaching for the stump of that last cigarette. It would be stale, but he doesn't really care. A smoke is a smoke is a smoke, no matter how much is left when he lights it up again.

Besides, he's lucky enough to have gotten the chance to nick it off of Skittery when he was sleeping; luckier still that the gangly, glum newsboy slept through the theft.

He never would have been able to.

Jack Kelly can't sleep at night anymore.

He doesn't know how it happened, or when, but he just can't sleep anymore. At night, when he's sitting in his bunk, the nightmares come—graphic, horrible nightmares—that are accompanied by the strangest of whisperings.

Sighing, he places the ends of his cigarette between his lips. It tastes foul, of sweat and salt and dirt, but it's still a smoke. The promise of nicotine does what the bright sunlight and the humid New York air can not: it settles him, calms him down. He's breathing easy again, relaxing before he's even struck a match.

The calm won't last but he'll take it while it does. He's an addict—he craves any sort of respite, no matter from where it comes.

His fingers are shaking and it takes one, two, _three_ swipes before the match is even lit. The heat of the tiny, flickering flame has nothing on the stuffiness that envelopes him, wraps him up and makes him suffer. He'd thought once that you see one New York summer, you'd seen 'em all… but he was wrong. Hell probably ain't gone nothing on the unrelenting heat.

Like a babe sucking at its mother's teat, he depends far more on the old smoke than he should. It's nothing but a habit, something he's never been able to give up despite Sarah's pleadings and Dave's comments, but now it's necessary. He can't imagine life without it; he has no doubt that he'd succumb to the whispers, to the nightmares, without it.

Dirt, coarse gravel and grit, falls from the palms of his sweaty hands and he wipes them on his dusty pants, puffing away fervently as he does. He's breathing in more deeply than he should, demanding more from the stale, tasteless cigarette than he should, and he feels the burn in his lungs.

He doesn't stop.

It's been hours since the circulation bell rang but he's nowhere near the distribution center. His wary, wandering feet—unheeded by a heavy head and tired soul—propel him onward.

The city streets, as mean as they can be crowded and garbage-strewn, are nevertheless his domain. Whether he finds his way uptown or he crosses out of the lower east side, Jack Kelly owns whichever patch of dirt he stands. Like a king, he lords over his corner; like a crazed cat, the insanity a tell in his troubled brown eyes, he dares anyone to encroach into his territory.

Jack, feigning a carefree attitude that a cigarette can attempt to reveal, bows his head a bit but keeps his wary eyes alert. Darting to and fro, he takes in everything and anything. His right foot _tap, tap, tap_s, his left hand anxiously drums a hollow beat against his thigh—the liar's lied to himself so much now that he ignores the signs of his own upset.

When your senses can betray you at any time, the visionary learns to appreciate it all. You never know when the nightmares can overtake you, plunging you into despair as you fight to ignore the horror before your eyes.

Off to his left, somewhat hazy and almost obscured by the cloud of smoke that seems to emanate off of his harrowed frame, he sees a skirt walking in his direction. Swishing a bit this way, and swinging back thataway, her heeled shoes echo in time to the pounding rhythm in his head.

The scowl etches deeper into his face, chapped lips pursing around the wrinkled rolling paper. He barely spares her a glance; still, he's aware enough that he notices it when she walks right on by him as if he wasn't even there. Not even a prim frown or a wrinkle of her nose to show she recognizes that he's anything more than an empty spot, a wasted space.

But that's all right. There were the days when Jack Kelly could have any dame in a twelve-block radius. What did it matter if one hoity-toity young lady didn't even slow her pace to pretend to be scandalized by his dire appearance?

There's enough on his overloaded mind, as it is. He can't afford to kowtow to his pride.

He's afraid he's gone crazy, that he's come undone. That the horror of his everyday's numbed him so much that the only way he can cope, that the only way he can _feel_, is for his imagination to produce these violent visions and nighttime tremors. But Jack can't cope, and he can't sleep.

The bags under his eyes are a deep purple color, his eyes themselves a bloodshot red. A perpetual scowl mars his once handsome face; there is neither memory of his cocky smirk nor the hint of a knowing smile. He's a ghost of his former self and, if it wasn't for the small things he clings to—his raggedy neckerchief, the frayed and battered Western Jim pamphlet, that tired old nickname…—he wouldn't even be that.

Oh, what he wouldn't give for the simple days when real-life giants threatened to crush the little guy, when a ragtag army of orphans and runaways could overpower the strong… the days before the sickness came. Before the headaches came.

Before the nightmares started.

There's a slick sheen of sweat on the back of his neck, but whether it's from the strain of not thinking—of not _remembering_—or because it's so damn hot out, Jack ain't sure. He debates wiping the moisture away, no doubt leaving grimy fingerprints along his skin, before just deciding against it. It _is_ hot, the New York sun heavy, and, hey—at least the wet's _wet_.

Instead, he focuses his attention on the last drag of his stolen smoke. It's borrowed time at best and, like all good things, it must come to an end.

And end it does.

Jack throws the burnt edges to the dirt before stubbing them out with the edge of his toes; he uses his old, worn boots to stomp the ends into nothing more than scattered ashes and dead embers. He spits on the remains once, wiping his mouth with the back of his filthy hand when he's sure the threat of a great conflagration is gone.

His mouth is dry now, tasting of cotton and heat and dirt (still), and his entire body tenses without the tobacco and fire to keep him soothed.

Spitting again, he wonders if his decision to skip out on selling was the best one. It's easier to lie to himself, to hide the tired and hide the truth when he has someone to hide it from. His self ain't buying it no more.

Exhaustion has made him weary, the visions reckless.

His left hand still beats a frantic tattoo against his leg. It takes him a tick and a drum to realize that his antsy fingers are in tune to the ever-growing throb behind his eyes.

Jack sighs, wishing Skittery'd had enough cigarettes that he could've nicked two. The way this day's promising to go, he'll need one long before he'll get the chance to beg, borrow or steal one.

After all, it's barely midday and the headaches are already starting.


	2. flame

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

* * *

**Visionary**

--

_Jack Kelly can't sleep at night anymore._

--

In his experience, Jack finds that there's only one solid cure to the pounding in his head. It's not even a difficult one, either. He can find it at the bottom of any bottle; a good, strong whiskey is just his preference.

The liquor usually costs more than half his earnings, leaving him with barely enough money for lodging fare. But, seeing as how Jack just doesn't sleep anymore, it's useless to return to Duane Street _every _night. Oh, he makes his appearances, reassures the fellas that remain that he hasn't died yet—or been carted off to Bellevue—but, on the whole, he doesn't quite mind drinking his profits away.

When it comes down to it, between the spirits in a bottle or the spirits in his head, it's no choice.

Jack Kelly knows which spirits he prefers.

There are plenty of haunts he likes to call home when the need arises and he desires a further reprieve than what a stolen, stale smoke can offer. His head pounding in rhythm to his frantic pace, Jack heads to one at random. It's close, it's cheap and it stocks some potent whiskey—hell, it's _better_ than home.

It's after his second glass that his headache disappears entirely. He revels in the empty-headed feeling, seeing clear despite the smoky haze of the dark and dank bar. When he reaches for his third, Jack doesn't guzzle it down; he's no longer as visibly desperate to kill the pain and fight against the memories.

Instead, he handles it gently, his lips caressing the worn, nicked glass, his tongue lapping at the richness of the drink. It burns the tip but he embraces the fire, relishing it.

But the fire can't keep away the cold, nor can the whiskey-induced clarity impede the recognition of that sound.

From a place behind him, directly past his tipping, wobbly barstool, Jack hears a sigh, followed by an impatient _tsk-_ing.

He doesn't turn around.

"Jack… Jack," another sigh, another _tsk_, "… _Francis_."

He works to hide the flinch, but there's no stopping the tremble. The names are familiar, of course, but the voice even more so. It finds him down the side streets, through the park, around Medda's old joint… and now here. In the seediest bar, in the darkest corner, it's found him.

Again.

His shaking hands reach out immediately for his glass, the amber liquid slopping along the sticky, stained bar top. It's a struggle to bring the drink to his lips but he's parched, and he's anxious and—he'll be damned if he'll admit it—and he's scared out of his damn mind.

Jack ain't too sure he's even got a damn mind left.

He just barely makes his mark, the liquor that missed dribbling down the corner of his mouth. He's frowning, the hair on the back of his neck standing up. He's as cold as ever; the burn from the whiskey can't even touch him now.

Another sigh, even more impatient. _Tap, tap, tap… _the rhythm is off, the footsteps light on the floor. "Jack… the drink won't get rid of me, Jack."

"The hell it won't!"

The words are a snarl, bitter and defensive. He's trying to hold on, trying not to fall, but he has the sinking sensation that he will fail. Throwing his head back, he downs the rest of the contents of his glass, smacking his lips loudly as he slams the fragile glass down on the counter. It's a miracle it doesn't break.

He's breathing heavy, his wary eyes wide and alert in something akin to pure panic. He cocks his head to the side, ignoring the skulking bartender who's trying his damndest to avert Jack's gaze, ignoring the other patrons as they drown their own sorrows in two-bit liquor.

A second passes but the chill remains. And then…_tap, tap tap…_

"I'm still here, Jack." There's that voice again, smarmy as ever.

And to think that he used to actually _listen _to that voice…

Slowly, while trying to keep his balance as the bum barstool teeters to the left before tottering to the right, Jack spins on his seat. He's been through this before—it's not as bad as the nightmares but only because he's awake enough (if not sober enough) to know that he's hallucinating—and he knows the cold won't go until he turns.

Slowly, Jack turns around and, with a scowl and a snort, he comes face to face with the past.

The past… it looks like hell. Jack has to fight hard to refrain from vomiting up three glasses of piss warm whiskey.

There's soot on the boy's face, staining the formerly white flesh dark. Blue eyes, part wise but undeniably naïve, are sunken into gaunt cheeks; slivers of clean skin peek out from under the black ash, the lines of dried tears traveling from cheek to chin.

His hair is still curly, if matted by sweat, and… and despite_ everything_, David Jacobs can still manage to twist his haughty features in such a way that Jack feels guilty for just breathing.

"Jack, tell me… what are you doing here?" David's almost pouting now, but there's remorse in his voice. He doesn't understand how anyone, Jack Kelly least of all, could willingly spend their time—and their earnings—in such a hovel.

"What am I doing here? What are _you_ doing here?" he whispers, rubbing his palms absently along the lengths of his faded, torn trousers. "But you ain't here, Dave, are ya? You ain't 'cause you're dead." His voice raises, his hand rises. He points at his former friend, no more in control of his shakes than he his of his voice. "You're dead, Dave, I saw you die!"

As if to make his point, he looks down.

Flames—vivid red and bright orange—lick at David's feet, while thick, black smoke encompasses most of his lower body. A ring of ash circles the boy, but he's unperturbed by any of it. He feels no heat, nor does Jack. Instead, an unbelievable chill surrounds David, filling Jack's corner of the bar.

Wide eyes, full of regret and things only the visionary can see, dance upwards, staring outward—looking anywhere, everywhere but at the specter before him.

David doesn't say anything; the only sound that can be heard is the fierce popping and crackling of the phantom flames that claimed his life and follow him in death. He doesn't leave, either, though he knows his appearance is unwelcome. His old friend looks petrified to see him—petrified or just plain guilty.

Jack hears the popping and the crackling and, all too vividly, he remembers that night. Or, perhaps, he's remembering the nightmares that came before, or the nightmares that followed. Still, he wants nothing more than to forget and, in an attempt to, he childishly lifts his hands and covers his ears.

The ghoulish sounds seep into his brain regardless.

"Jack, listen to me," David begins, entirely aware that Jack can still hear every word he says, "I need you. _We _need you."

That does it. Every man's got his breaking point and, while Jack is damaged beyond repair, this new strain has enticed him to shatter. He falls to pieces, scattered amongst the filth and debris on the tavern floor. Too weak to reassemble the shards, he lowers his hands and lowers his head.

"Go away, Dave!" His voice cracks in the middle of his command; he's a far cry from the charming boy who once rallied the working kids of New York.

Jack Kelly, the great Cowboy, is nothing but another casualty. In all ways but the ones that really count, he's just as dead as all the others. How ever could hehelp _them_? _He _needs all the damn help he can get.

"Jack…"

"I said go away," he mumbles, purposely turning his back on the ghost. His stool wobbles again—unsteady hands shoot out to grip the counter before him—but, as soon as he's facing forward again, he feels the warmth, sudden and containing. In the absence of that unnatural cold, even this dump is toasty.

David's gone, and Jack hopes he never comes back.

He rubs his forehead with the tips of his fingers, and he rubs his mouth with the back of his hand. He feels like he's gasping, choking for air, but he doesn't make a sound—save for the rapping of his knuckles against the bar top.

All the while, the sleazy bartender at the end of the counter doesn't say a word. He's been through this all before, but what does it matter when the kid always overpays? If Jack wants to rant and rave at the empty air, why should he stop him?

Without making any contact with those crazy, haunted eyes, the bartender steps forward and tops off Jack's whiskey glass.

And Jack wonders how many more glasses until he finally drowns.


	3. fire

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

* * *

**Visionary**

--

_Jack Kelly can't sleep at night anymore._

--

He's losing weight, his body frame thin and sickly, skeleton-like. He's not eating; it makes him ill, just the thought of trying to choke down anything that wasn't hot and wet. To compensate, Jack ties his frayed rope belt a little tighter. His stomach is bloated, full of liquor and air and smoke, but even that isn't enough to keep his old, worn pants around his waist.

Walking with a bit of a stoop, he nearly trips and stumbles as he leaves the bar. It could be because his trousers are slung so low and he falls all over the hem, or because he's drunk off his ass. Either way, he leans on the first corner he finds. The air, the cool wind of a late summer night, is conspiring against him, he believes; one rough gust and he's on his back.

He had two more glasses of whiskey after his vision of David but it did him no good. Under the perpetual layer of dirt and grime and New York stink he sees goose bumps and he shivers, fighting against the chill. He's damn hot, even though it's well past dark and it's promising to be a rainy tomorrow, but there's no surpassing the cold that follows him. Instead, he succumbs to it. He embraces it.

But he doesn't turn around for fear of who he'll find dogging his every step; which one of the dead walks behind him, close enough that he feels their icy touch. It doesn't matter who he sees. He knows they're there.

Jack Kelly is a dead man walking.

Images swirl in his whiskey-laden muddled mind as he pushes off, trying his damndest to escape, _escape it all_. Things he's seen in truth and things he's only envisioned and things even half a bottle of cheap whiskey can't make him forget… they're all there, inside his head.

Oh, God. What he wouldn't do for a smoke right now.

His eyes feel gritty, and they're heavy; dirty, shaky hands reach up to wipe at them and, when they do no good, he leaves them there, preferring for the moment to remain blind. Jack doesn't need his sight anyway, not to know where he's going or where he's been. He continues to stumble as he rubs his eyes again, so hard it's like he's trying to stub a cigarette out on the dirt-filled ground.

From the shape of the cobbles underneath his paper-thin soles, Jack knows where he is instinctually. Maybe it was an accident, or maybe it's the work of a pushy spirit who doesn't know the meaning of the word 'no', but it doesn't mean nothing now.

Jack knows _exactly _where he is.

His feet begin to slow, treacherous things, taking a steady, if stumbling, path down his deepest, darkest memories. Like a marionette at one of those nickel sideshows, he's being controlled—he has no control; on expertly maneuvered paddles, the strings pull and the puppet Jack dances.

In a mad and useless attempt at staying the hands of the puppet master, he desperately searches for something to take his mind out of the past. Eyes aching, stinging, red and raw from the furor of his fists, he lowers his hands finally. As the right drops, he absently brushes against his cheek.

It's hollow, gaunt and drawn over his skull. Closer examination reveals the razor-thin edge of his jaw, striking out through the tight, sallow skin. Carefully, nearly mesmerized by the waxy feel, he runs his pointer finger along the side, finding every bump and imperfection that a meaty fist or a well-placed slap had left behind. Different memories—some revered, some regretted—spring to mind and, though he's still ambling forward, he's able to forget.

Jack sighs.

He really should start eating again soon. He's pretty close to vanishing himself, and that would be just unacceptable. After every thing he's seen, it would be downright laughable if he starves to death.

He looks down, watching his feet with such intensity that it's hard to tell he's walking off half a night in a bar. _Step right, step left, step right…_ maybe, if he keeps his head down and his mind focused, he'll pass right on by.

When he reaches the end of the block, never more pleased to see horse shit in the open road in his life, Jack breathes a sigh of relief; thinking he's made it through the unwelcome nightmares, dodging the triggers for another night, he's pretty damn relieved.

The relief comes too soon. He breathes in deep, the stink turning his stomach (and it's not the shit, either). It takes everything he's got—and then some—to keep the whiskey down.

One whole damn year later, the air _still _smells of soot.

A phantom blade cuts the strings, the puppet's free. But, too tired to walk and too drunk to find shelter, he just… _stops_.

The world's falling_ falling _up, and he's falling _falling_ down—the dirt greets him like a long, lost friend. Unaware of the vaguely curious and definitely pity-filled eyes around him, Jack finds himself sitting upright again, the coarse brick of the refurbished old tenement biting into the backs of his stick-thin arms.

Pulling his legs close to his chest, he wraps his arms around them (trying to keep himself together and in one piece). He bows his head, greasy hair falling forward and sticking to his sweaty, puckered forehead.

It was almost a year ago, the first time he heard the whispers and had the dreams; it was the first, but it wasn't the last.

He remembers that first night vividly; it could have happed just yesterday.

It feels like it did.

Jack Kelly closes his eyes…

_Extry, extry, read all about it! Big conflagration on the lower east side! Hundreds dead!_

…and he sees.

--

_He didn't know exactly where he was, but he wasn't alone. He had his family with him; by any rights, he was satisfied. _

_David stood to his right, Jack keeping his arm slung casually over his pal's bony shoulder; Sarah was at his right, leaning in towards him, his left arm wrapped snugly around her trim waist. Les, like a faithful puppy, was at his faithful perch at Jack's feet. Hero worship evidently splayed across his youthful face, he stared up at Jack with nothing but trust in his eyes._

_It was a friendly scene, comforting and cozy at the same time. Other details were hazy—he did not remember coming to this place, nor did he recognize the dark walls—but he found himself untroubled. It was nice to be loved; Jack Kelly hadn't been loved in a very long time._

_Everyone wore smiles, content as they were. There was an overarching feeling of calm but, suddenly, the calm dissipated._

_Jack was the one to notice the strange panic first. On all sides of him, from David on his right, Sarah on his left and Les in front, he felt unnatural warmth that quickly became an unbearable heat. It seemed to be coming from the Jacobs' siblings themselves. When it got to the point that he felt that his skin would blister from the touch, he pulled his arms back and took a step away._

_When he moved, the three Jacobs children all turned to face him. Jack felt his heart seize with something he rarely felt (and barely recognized):_ fear_._

_There was fire in their eyes and their skin was runny—their faces looked as though it was melting right off the bone. Sarah's hair, long and dark, was sparking; dark smoke rose above her, settling over her head like a macabre crown._

_Jack couldn't speak. His features were locked, he couldn't even run._

_Their mouths were open but neither David, Sarah nor Les uttered a sound. At least, not with their own voices._

_The whispers…_

Jack… Jack… hot… no… Les… help… fire… Sarah, don't… Jack… can't wait… you… FIRE… no, David… Jack… help… so hot… never can… they'll burn… JACK… you'll burn… HEL—

_His eyes, wide and panicky, looked from each of them to the next. Les was the first to crumble, dropping down and hitting a hazy, smoky floor. He was ash upon impact._

_Sarah was the next to fall. Jack heard a scream and then a crack—the sound of a heart breaking, perhaps—and then she was gone._

_David remained the longest but, in the end, he too was gone. He looked his friend dead in the face, a sick grinning skeleton peering at him with red-orange flames where the blue eyes once were, and scattered._

_And that's when Jack finally began to scream._

He jerks awake, the echo of a heart wrenching scream still in his ears. Sticky, cool sweat coating the back of his neck, dampening the old, smelly pillow at the corner of his bunk. It's still early—Kloppman hasn't even started his rounds yet, and the other's are still sleeping, none troubled by terrible nightmares.

Jack rubs his neck, confused by the presence of that slick moisture. It's been hotter in the bunkroom and he's tougher than that. Still, he can't get those pleading cries and horrible screams out of his head. Perhaps he should just check, just make sure that he was just imagining it all…

He doesn't wait for Kloppman to come upstairs. By the time the old supervisor comes to wake up the newsboys, one top bunk is already empty. The bandana usually hung off the edge is missing; a small, damp patch is all that remains on rumpled sheets.

It's not a far walk between Dave's place and Duane Street. So consumed by the images and the sounds that tortured him the night before, he doesn't recognize the soot in the air; the darkness in the dawning morn is ignored. He's too busy convincing himself that he'd been too imaginative for his own good.

Deciding to shake the eerie dream off as nothing but, Jack arrives just in time to watch his world burn.


	4. ashes

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

* * *

**Visionary**

--

_Jack Kelly can't sleep at night anymore._

--

He comes to with the vibrant orange of an early sun striking against the inside of his eyelids. The remnants of an early morning summer shower slicks his arms and keeps his forehead pressed against his skin. His long hair is damp, too-thick tendrils drip-dropping against the back of his neck. Jack resists the urge to shake himself off like a dog.

He hasn't sunk that low.

Not yet.

There's a chilling sound of suction as he peels his forehead away from his forearm, defiantly tilting his head back, daringly jutting his chin out. In the haze of yesterday's folly, with the scent of soot still in his nose, he knows where he is. He just doesn't care anymore. He can't bring them back. All the wishing and the scheming and the _caring _in the world won't bring them back.

The dirty, dry taste remains and he wonders if he kissed the ground at some point. He wouldn't put it past him. In the middle of a fit, Jack will do anything. Nothing surprises him anymore; as the visionary, he's already seen it all. Why not do it, too?

Opening and then just as quickly closing his eyes against another dawn, Jack tries to wish some moisture back into his mouth. He swallows once, twice but his tongue stays like sandpaper, itchy and dry. There isn't even enough saliva left for him to spit his displeasure.

He grumbles to himself. When a hangover this bad is the price to pay, the cost of losing the pounding, throbbing headache just doesn't seem worth it.

Lost in a world all of his own, he only confronts reality when the not-so-gentle nudge in his side forces him to. It's a sharp poke repeated, a rough something jamming into his ribs. He imagines he hears a crack and only prays that he's that damn lucky.

"Get up, boy! This ain't a place for a dirty piece of trash like you to sleep! Go on, now! Get!"

Silly man.

He's not sleeping. He can't. The nightmares haunt him and the whispers taunt him when he loses his hope and loses his grip and closes his eyes purposefully. So he doesn't.

Jack Kelly doesn't sleep, but sometimes he passes out.

The hard-pressed smart ass in him longs to retort that he's never been more awake in his life but he can't find the words. His tongue is suddenly twice the size, barely able to fit in his mouth. He stays silent, cursing the man with his (_for his_) very presence.

Slowly, lazily, he opens his bloodshot eyes and lifts his head. He smells of whiskey and filth and he knows it. It's no surprise that, when he follows the boot kicking him, he recognizes the old copper it's attached to.

There's a disgusted sneer on the man's face that tells Jack that he ain't as invisible as he wishes he could be. He ain't afraid, or amused. He's just tired. What does this cop want with him now?

He's too old for the Refuge and he'd be damned if they sent him there anyway. Was it finally his time to follow in the footsteps of his old man and get sent to the Pen? After all the lives lost and his utter failure in doing anything to help his former pals, has the blame finally fallen on him? Was it finally time for him to answer for his horrors?

Jack hopes so. But he doubts it.

Nobody believes him anymore. And they don't believe in him, either.

Besides, what does it matter when a cell couldn't keep the past at bay? He no doubt deserves to be locked up, if only to save everyone else from his black cloud and unshakeable demons. But since when is it a crime to watch one after another of his friends—of his family—perish?

It's a pity, and it's a shame. It's life… but it sure as hell ain't a crime.

Jack wishes it was. For all the things he's done and the things he couldn't do, he'd gladly go to the Chair. If they'd let him, he'd even go so far as strap himself in, doing up the buckles with his own ink-stained hands. Maybe, when he was dead like the rest of them, the whispers and the nightmares _and the pain _would finally just—

—**stop**.

"Go on," the cop says and, for good measure, he digs the tip of shiny, shiny boot into Jack's side a second time. His faces twisted in self-righteousness, he glares down at the boy.

One second, that's all it takes. A single tick on an unseen clock.

The sneer freezes behind his weathered façade; the billy club is limp in his hand. The foot drops.

A single tick and the cop's seen more in Jack's bloodshot, watery eyes than in twenty years on the beat. There's pain in those eyes, sorrow and despair. Loss. Grief. Hopelessness. They're the eyes that have seen a hundred deaths; the eyes that expect nothing less every time they shudder.

"Get," he says again, but his words have lost all meaning to him and to Jack. He's not certain. Only a copper's badge and the policeman's sense of entitlement keep him from turning tail.

The cop foolishly looked into the eyes of Jack Kelly—into the eyes of the visionary—and he found Hell staring back.

Jack sees the spasm of recognition as it flitters across the old cop's face, and he sighs. They all see him for what he is, even if they don't understand. They can't understand anymore than they can help.

There will be no peace—for him, or for anyone—until he gets up and he leaves this place. The cobbles on this street, once familiar, now hallow, are not meant for his heavy footsteps. The cop is right. It's time to get.

Tired, oh so very tired, yet firm with resolve, Jack slowly pulls himself to his feet…

It's like a dance, orchestrated by and in time to the Ballad of the Street Rat. With a smirk to rival the old copper's sneer, and a mocking gesture, he lowers his cursed eyes in an act of faux remorse. But his back he doesn't bend; he's straight-backed and proud, even to the end.

Reading his partner—his opponent—he spins just out of reach of a wild, thoughtless club, dodging a hit and landing gracefully two paces away. Smug as his feat, he waits until the last possible moment before taking his bow and taking his leave.

Over the roar of an imaginary crowd, Jack can barely make out the cop's parting words:

"And don't let me catch you around here again, boy!"

--

He doesn't go far.

Just around the corner maybe, too exhausted—too stubborn—to go on, he stops.

He doesn't know where he got it from or how he found it but, when Jack shoves his trembling, callused hands into his pockets, he's sure glad to find that there's the smallest stub of a hand rolled cigarette.

The match is in his hand before he knows it, his lips puckered as they desperately wait for sweet release. It takes but one strike this time before the tip is lit; he accepts the warmth—appreciates it, even—as he breathes in the fire.

Jack takes one drag and that's enough. His stomach turns, his nostrils filled with something so similar to cigarette smoke… but not. It's not burning tobacco he remembers at this place—and the scent of soot _is _still in the air. Soot and fire and bad, bad memories.

Swallowing back the bile and the black fog that threatens to bring him back under, he removes the damn cigarette from his disillusioned frown and lets it rest absently between his pointer and his index finger.

It isn't the release he's looking for.

His back is up against the brick wall, rocky ridges biting into old scars. Leaning his head back and lifting his head up, embers build and ashes fall. The grey-black-white pieces of once was flitter softly to the ground; a swirl of neglected fire rises up, smoke unfurling as it dances on air.

Gently, Jack ashes the cigarette, taking care not to disturb the softness of the wispy smoke. It's light in the midmorning sunshine, hanging in front of his haunted eyes before disappearing forever.

But forever isn't very long at all—and the innocence fades to black. It's thick smoke now, dark and foreboding.

He ashes the cigarette with more vigor this time. The smoke goes nowhere.

In a trance, he marvels at the smoke and, as his heart races and his head pounds, he wonders how he could have been so blind. There's no excuse; his eyes have barely closed for fear of what would linger in the dark. It's a portent, he sees that now, and he hiccups back his heave.

Jack leaves the fire lit long enough to get a better glimpse at this portent. A face forms in the smoke, features nondescript but recognizable regardless. He knows that face. He knows that smirk. He knows that boy.

He watched him die.

The cigarette falls from frantic fingers, extinguished a breath later by a savage boot. Taking no chances, he doesn't turn his back until he's killed the flame, scattered the ashes and erased the smoke.

Walking away from this place with his head down and his shaky, shaky hands in his pocket, Jack Kelly fights back a shiver.

Forgotten footsteps follow him always.


	5. burnt

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

* * *

**Visionary**

--

_Jack Kelly can't sleep at night anymore._

--

"Jack…"

His teeth clench.

"Jacky Boy…"

His hands fold into fists so tight that ragged nails tear into callused palms.

The footsteps are light but he hears them, as much as he tries to ignore it. The sounds of happiness and busyness of a world around him (a world apart from him) do nothing to drown out the lighthearted tapping of an insistent pursuer. It's all he hears, the simple _tap tap tap_. Their unfamiliarity marks them as familiar; the gentle cat-footed steps belong to someone who never walked so lightly in life.

He longs to raise his hands and cover his ears but he knows it'll do no use. Like with David, his old ally and former friend will talk and talk and _keep on talking_ regardless of how desperately Jack doesn't want to hear. The taunting voice and sneering smirk is evident in the call of his chosen identity.

His security.

His alibi.

His one tie to whatever will keep him from following in the footsteps of his namesake. Francis Sullivan, Sr. is locked away in Sing Sing; the unwilling Jr. is locked away in his visions and his despair. He sheds that forsaken name in a way he can't shake his past. Francis Sullivan, Jr. is as dead as all the others; the shell of Jack Kelly stands hunched in his place.

Jack Kelly is Jack Kelly because he doesn't want to be anyone else.

"Jack… Jack be nimble—"

He stops, the simple power of the foolish rhyme causing his feet to stick to the dirt as if they were drawn by glue.

_No._

"—Jack be quick—"

The footsteps stop.

_Not again._

"—Jack jump over the candlestick—"

An involuntary shiver erupts down the course of his lanky body, goose pimples popping up over every inch of scarred flesh. His skin crawls in response to the mocking tone. There was a time when he listened to that voice. Now he would do anything to never hear it utter another word.

Bitter words, harsh words, can cut like a knife. This singsong taunt is worse; he feels the hilt of a blade deep inside. He braces himself for the eventual twist of the handle.

"—if Jack had jumped a little higher—"

His eyes closed. Trying his damndest to think of anything and everything but what that the voice will, no doubt, imply, Jack is entirely unable to tune out the end of the morbid tune.

And he waits.

"—he wouldn't have caught his ol' pal, the Walking Mouth, on fire…"

It's like a sucker punch straight to the square of his chest. His breath hitches, and his body tenses in response to the final line. Every time Brooklyn's uneasy rest causes him to rise and take to his trail, the accusations fly and the unwarranted (or so he tells himself) guilt returns.

Still, he doesn't turn around. He digs his heels into the dirt, his jaw clamped so tight that his whole body shakes. The breath is cool on his neck but an internal inferno heats him up from inside out. Jack is suddenly hot, his skin flushed, red and blotchy. Haunted by his past and a ghost what refuses to die, the unwilling living blanches from his approach, flinches from the chilled insinuation in the jeering voice.

His own voice is weak—unconvincing. Quick words tumble out, mumbled together in a jumbled mess. "I_didn't_do_it_!" There's heat in his words; smoke and steam and _hot_ figuratively emit, slipping out from beneath clenched teeth.

The answering laugh is contrite—disbelieving. Harsh, almost like a bark, he laughs and the sound hurts Jack's ears. "What was that, Jacky Boy? I didn't hear ya."

"I didn't do it."

"Eh?"

He's walking on a tightrope, like a circus performer, without a net to catch him. He's tottering, his balance failing, and the world below waits for him to fall. He snaps. "I. Didn't. Do. It—"

Like a fancy dancer, a ballerina, he spins around. He hadn't meant to do it but there's no turning back now. Never before called a coward—if he can't say the same for being branded a liar and a thief—he finds it in himself to whirl on his opponent, hellfire in his dead eyes. Jack suffers from remorse, from guilt, but even then he won't hide from the shadows that follow him.

At least, not when the shadows are so insistent as—

"—_Spot_."

And there he is, Spot Conlon.

Brooklyn, himself.

Jack has never forgotten that smirk.

He keeps his hands tucked smartly beneath those faded red suspenders of his. Leaning back, tilting his head up to get a better look at his old friend, Spot's lips curl back revealing once-white teeth. There's spatters of blood staining them now, his gums swollen and red. Rust-colored wet wells at the corner of his mouth, dribbling down his chin.

He doesn't wipe it away.

He's shorter now, Jack thinks—or, perhaps, he can't remember the exact details of Conlon. His hair is still fair, his eyes that strange, piercing shade. There's dust coating his side, a tarnished can stuck between weathered belt loops. The soles of his boots are worn down, the reason behind his uncharacteristically light footsteps obvious now; his soul is stretched, and he's just as thin.

If Jack tries real hard, he can look right _through _Spot.

The thought frightens him more than he can say. It's one thing to face the phantom of his past; its another to see him vanishing before his very eyes.

Then again, the visionary _does _see everything…

"Whatever ya say, Jack. But I don't see why ya gotta keep foolin' yourself."

Animal instincts flood through him and, baring his teeth at the specter, he growls. Exhaustion fades in the face of adrenaline; when confronted with a bald-faced lie, Jack can not hang onto his indifference. It's hard enough to keep his hold on his sanity.

"You know damn well that the fire was an accident, Spot! I'd never hurt none of them on purpose."

"Like I said: whatever ya say." He made a sound, an almost snort, and the warm, sticky blood at the corner of his mouth bubbles and splashes in his obvious amusement. Jack hurriedly, unconsciously, takes a step back to avoid the gruesome spray. "Remember, Cowboy… denial ain't just a river in Egypt."

Jack's suddenly tired again, this newest delusion more draining than he'd ever guess. He'd expected more of a fight from Spot—without one, he's weakened again. He sighs, defeated. "And what do you know about Egypt, Spot?"

"Enough."

There's that knowing smirk again.

"And what are ya doin' here, Spot?"

He didn't really expect a straight answer. A liar knows a liar—and both of them were experts at their craft. In a manner similar to his own, Jack is aware of Spot's ability to take the truth and twist it and turn it and spin it inside out until there's nothing left but a lie so expertly raveled that no one—no one, that is, but a fellow artist—could spy it for what it once was.

But Spot's through with playing games. He's already lost everything he has to lose; there's nothing to gain now by straying from the truth. And, besides, he can be honest when he's got to be, tough when there's a battle to fight… and a smartass when a fella deserves it.

This time, there's nothing for it but for Spot to tell Jack the truth.

He nods. "I got a message for ya. From Race."

Immediately, Jack's on guard. Just the sound of that name is enough to set his hair on edge, enough to trigger the pounding.

_Race_—

Though it does nothing but aggravate the growing discomfort that another headache with no doubt bring, Jack shakes his head roughly. "Yeah? What is it?" His voice barely trembles, his control intact. A message from Race is not something he's eager to hear.

"Time's up, Cowboy. You've thrown the dice one too many times and snake eyes finally come up."

Jack swallowed. He knew the answer but traitorous lips form the question anyway:

"And what's that mean?"

"You're next."

His grin is wicked, that knowing look seemingly cruel. Absolute enjoyment fills his once-handsome, now-distorted features. The face Spot sports is a façade; a long ago memory, a reminder, and a bad, bad dream. In his devilish amusement, thin cracks appear throughout the mask but he doesn't notice.

Jack does.

Frozen in his own (empty) world, he listens to Spot's pronouncement with a blank expression on his weathered face. Betraying no emotion, showing no sign that he acknowledges Brooklyn's gleeful act as an angel of death, he blinks once. Slowly, reveling in the respite allowed by a few minutes of lingering in total darkness, he lets his eyes close.

The words ring in his ears. They're final, the weight of them handing over him like the obvious sentence they are. He'd known that he would die before long, but the comfort and relief of knowing it would be sooner than he'd expected is missing. Only this morning he'd wished for the end but now—

—he realizes that there's still a lot to be done.

_Seen_.

Suddenly Jack Kelly doesn't want to die.

He shivers and, when his eyes open again, Spot is still standing there. Still smirking up at him.

His hands are no longer tucked smartly beneath his faded suspender straps. One hand hanging loosely at his side, the other outstretched towards Jack, the new position reveals a gash that near cuts the boy in half. Dark blood stains the torn shirt; small drips of the never-drying crimson fall to the dirt, ruby red puddles forming at his feet.

There's blood on his hands as he lays a reassuring arm on Jack's shoulder. "Don't worry," Spot says, his tone telling the other that he'd be foolish to believe him now, "dyin' ain't half as bad as the papes make it out to be."

Numb and unaffected, Jack shakes Spot's arm off and takes a step back.

It's only when he sees the bloody handprint on his shoulder that he loses it.


	6. wither

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

* * *

**Visionary**

--

_Jack Kelly can't sleep at night anymore._

--

The sudden panic drapes over him like a cruel and unforgiving winter's night. Dark and cold, he fights against it blindly, trying his best to escape its icy hold. But like the sun bringing relief to another endless night, only a handful of deep, shuddering breaths and a quick set of feet can stave it off. Stave it off and keep him from falling under and falling prey.

It disappears as quickly as it arrives, leaving a sour, bitter taste in his mouth and a splitting headache in its wake. Jack doesn't know where exactly he ran to but the _to_ had never been that important to him. It's the _from _that he runs from—

—from a crook of a father, and the memory of a martyr of a mother. He runs from old friends, dead friends, scattered ashes and pure regret. From self-loathing, denial and hatred. And he runs from the truth…

Jack Kelly is running from the past but it still manages to catch up to him.

But he can't run forever, and he doesn't. The panic's fled so there is no more reason for him to flee. A quick glance over his shoulder confirms that Spot is gone, his careful footsteps off to haunt someone else. A second glance at his shoulder shows him that his panic and his fright was in vain.

The handprint designed from Spot's spilt blood is gone, too. Without a trace, the stain is as if it has never been.

Giving himself a small shake, he makes himself forget. He's good at that, the blackness coming easily as if summoned by name. He doesn't want to remember. Not the gash, not the blood, not the taunts… and not the threat. He shakes himself until he feels his upset and his grief and his goddamn _fear_ slide off of him and down his crippled back like a second skin.

The weight doesn't seem so heavy all of a sudden and he finds the strength to straighten up. He stands like a broken man, but no longer is he hunched, cowering like a wild animal.

Jack knows every inch of Manhattan like he knows every inch of his defeated body, so he _knows_ where his flight has taken him—but he doesn't quite recognize it all. His eyes see the now, the change and the new that the visionary had never foreseen… but his mind sees the past, the lives that have surrendered, the people that aren't and the way things used to be.

He walks in a daze, unfeeling now, unafraid. He takes the steps he's always taken, a blend of the then and the now making it damn hard for him to walk straight.

It's just past morning, maybe twenty four hours since the last time the headaches started. He feels the pounding as it begins again, the incessant knock knock _knocking_ against the inside of his skull. But his pockets are empty save for lint and a prayer; the memory of David and the feel of a phantom fire keep him from running back to the tavern regardless.

No. There's only one place from him right then.

There's only one place he can ever return to, one place that will accept him back no matter how hard he tries to break away from it.

The cries of the newsboys already on the street can be heard all around him, the distribution bell long since rung. The worthless rags are clutched like prizes in their ink-stained hands. Lies and improvisations and anything but the God's honest truth is hollered, screamed and offered on the corners and in the streets.

It's been too long since he was part of that world. Anxious fingers fiddle with the frayed ends of a belt rope that barely serves its purpose and he grits his teeth and bares the pain. Too long, and too far away. He can never go back.

This visionary has seen, done, _given up_ too much to.

The numbness persists. Even the pounding staccato is dulling in the wake of Spot Conlon's last words and haunting threats. With his eyes open, wide and unseeing, he can still visualize the wicked grin that warps his old pal's face; he hears the drip, drip, dripping of the blood as it hits the floor.

And he remembers the message.

_You're next._

Racetrack would know. It's only fitting for the old gambler's soul to find him in the place that they'd met.

Jack doesn't need the sign on the corner to tell him that he's found himself—unwittingly, unwillingly and entirely on purpose—on Duane Street. Just the stink in the air and the child's screams that give renewed life to his headache reminds him that this, as far as he tells himself, is _home_.

The morning edition is up and the customers with their trusting ears and heavy purposes are on the streets. He doesn't expect to see any of the fellas he used to know—or even the new ones he can't be bothered to greet—because they, unlike him, have their purpose. They have a reason to live—

—but Jack just wants to live.

Inside, Kloppman is standing at his post, his hat knocked to one side, his knowing grin curving up the other. He's hazy, barely there, but Jack doesn't notice the faint glow that surrounds the old man, or the black smoke that lingers around his mouth. If he looks hard enough, he's sees ghosts everywhere. It doesn't hurt so much when he tells himself that they're real.

So consumed with the forever pain and the nothingness that overwhelms him, Jack spares a small wave at Kloppman. "Just goin' on up," he tells him, his voice hoarse and rough. "You can add it to what I owe ya."

Kloppman doesn't say a word in response, no scolding nor a joke. His bright blue eyes, blue like an early September sky, shine behind a dusty, streaky set of lenses; his crooked grin stays in place, the man as silent as the grave. He doesn't move, either.

Jack doesn't notice. Already he's forgotten everything that has led him back to Duane Street this morning. Everything but Spot's haunting last words.

_You're next._

He's lost track of how much he owes the old superintendent. Between drinking his rare profits away and barely returning to Duane Street as it is, Jack hasn't paid lodging fare in what seems like forever. Then again, Kloppman stopped asking for it long ago…

Halfway up the rickety stairs that lead to sanctuary, his far-reaching ears catch his name. The two symbols are unfamiliar, filtering in through a heavy head, wrapping around a reluctant heart. He pauses, still as a statue as he listens. What do they have to say about New York's great Cowboy now?

There was a time when every kid on the streets knew his name. It echoed in the underground, rang out from the alleyways, was whispered from within the darkest slums. A hero he was, the Cowboy who took on the bigwigs and, gosh darn it, won!

But then… then the dreams started, the visions began. David was gone, Sarah was gone… and, bit by bit, Jack went with them.

Nobody talked about him anymore—

"Say, ain't that Cowboy over there?"

"Yeah. Looks like shit, don't he?"

"Yeah. But who's that he was just talkin' to?"

"That? Just another one of his ghosts."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

—unless they were talking about him.

The words are as sharp as Spot's but he deflects them, ignores them. His solitude is his armor, as cold as it is impenetrable. The pain can't get in just as the grief can never escape. The tired remains, the ache remains and the solid certainty that there has to more than _this _just doesn't go away.

They don't understand. But then again, neither does he.

The bed is as hard as he remembers, the old, stained pillow smelling of dirt and sweat and _old_. There's no sign that anyone uses it but him, though he uses it so rarely, and he understands why. Who'd want to sleep in a haunted bunk? Who'd want their rest stolen, their very soul drawn from beneath slack lips, and their nighttime dreams cursed forevermore?

His eyes feel like there's grit in them. It stings and he has the strange desire to render himself blind. He can't sleep anymore because of the nightmares and the things he sees. Would they go away if he sacrificed his eyes?

Would the ghosts leave him alone if he sacrificed his life?

Spot had told him that dyin' ain't half as bad… but Jack doesn't buy it. He's seen countless friends perish and felt pain over every death until the numbness came and never left. If it hurt that bad for the living, it could only be excruciating for those who had to die.

Like Spot Conlon had to die.

He remembers…

It was a cowardly killing, vicious at the same time. Spot was attacked from behind, his blood and his guts and his arrogance spilled for the whole of Brooklyn to see. It had to have hurt, his life bleeding out of him, agony and a cruel twist of fate keeping him alive longer than if the bastard who knifed him had been a man and stabbed him in the heart instead of being yellow and stabbing him in the back.

The rumors of Conlon's death still circulate, even though no one remembers you in New York when you die. He's a hero, not because he had nerve and a quick slingshot, but because he got knifed and didn't cry out as he died. He took it like a man, a boy of sixteen dying long before it was time.

And Jack remembers it as if it was yesterday.

He wants to forget but sometimes… sometimes he has to remember.


	7. shiver

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

* * *

**Visionary**

--

_Jack Kelly can't sleep at night anymore._

--

The memories creep up on him like a cruel chill, bringing goose pimples that strike his flesh and make him shiver. His head is flat against the pillow, so thin and mangled that it's like nothing is supporting him at all. Flat on his back, his headache still pounding, he wonders what it'd be like to have a satin pillow propped up under him.

Maybe if he was another of the Hearsts and the Pulitzers of the world, maybe if there was real money in his pockets instead of the handful of pennies, he could pay the nightmares to stop, pay to keep the visions at bay.

But he can't and he banished those treacherous thoughts before they even begin. He never had no money, he never will, and a flimsy, cardboard-thin pillow is the best he got. It's still stuck on a top bunk and, his eyes too stubborn to blink the pain away and protect him from the visions of the past, he stares lifelessly at the pitted ceiling overhead.

He's alone in the bunkroom, though a handful of boys had been lingering around the bunks when he arrived. All of them, the younger boys who hear the stories and not the legends, they turn away when the faded Cowboy appears. Making the Sign of the Cross fervently, whether out of habit or in search of added aid, they flee when confronted with his evil eye. A newsboy's life is hard enough; repeated superstitions and the haunting curse of the visionary is much too much for them.

They run, their hurried steps echoing as they scurry like scattered rats down the stairs.

He doesn't hear them.

Jack Kelly was alone long before the bunkroom was empty.

His hands are clenched into tight fists at his side, his body molded to the shape of the old, hard bed. For too long he'd slept on the same mattress, in the same position—on his back, proud and alert even when he was snoring—and even now, even as sleep continues to elude him, his back slides ride to the center. It's as close as his as something could be; the view and the bunk, both.

But, like the worn pamphlet he used for kindling one winter's night, and the old scabber suit he swapped for a bottle of gin, it _was_ his—but it isn't anymore.

What use is a bed when you can't sleep for fear of what the night will bring?

He doesn't need a damn satin pillow.

The memories are drifting forward, bringing the darkness of another black-out spell. Like the dark, dark smoke cloud of a building burning, it's thick and intoxicating. His breath catches in the back of his throat, the feeling of asphyxiation becoming stronger and stronger with every intake of air he struggles with. To make up for the lack, he exhales all the more roughly; hoping that, with every breath, he's regaining control, pushing out the past that threatens to overtake him.

Jack doesn't want to remember.

Too preoccupied with the visionary's fight to notice, his head jerks back and forth, the old, moldy pillow snagging his long, greasy hair. It burns his neck, the skin raw as the rough cloth bites into his back. Gritting his teeth against another fit, he wills his eyes to stay wide no matter how much it cuts him to do so. The dark lingers just out of reach, the remembrance working in turn to rise up against him.

With a snap and a groan, he fails. His eyes shut as if pulled with a drawstring, his mouth gone slack as he begins to breathe shallowly through his nose. He stifles a groan, an unsatisfactory, guttural sound that can't escape the vision's hold. The memories are too strong—he never had a chance.

The visionary never wins.

--

_It's dark, the moon shining ominously against the rippling waves of the river below. Stars dot the midnight blue sky. It's late._

_He's alone._

_Jack doesn't know where he is, but that's a normal occurrence for him lately. He can fall asleep in one place, visit another without having to take a single step, and wake up where he started from with the strangest visions flashing before his beleaguered eyes. Ever since David's unfortunate death and the roaring fire, he sees things. He hears things. They just won't stop…_

_He has the sinking suspicion that this is another of those visions._

_Taking a deep breath, steadying the nerves he can't quite explain, he recognizes the salt in the air, and the ever present stuffy stink of a New York summer. He's outside, that much is clear, and he's waiting. Not one to feel so antsy, so nervy, Jack paces along the wooden road, listening as the water bubbles and hisses._

_The heat has seeped in so quickly that he barely notices it._

_Using his right hand, Jack unties his bandana, letting his neck breathe. The sweat has welled up so much that his collar is drenched. The slick liquid drips down his forward, traveling down his nose before it drops onto the wood. He starts to pant before reaching up and attempting to remove his vest._

_He can't. There's something in his left hand, something long and thin and sharp that won't let the ratty old vest come off._

_Staring at his hand, trying to use the moonlight, Jack tries to discover what it is that he holds. _

_He can't. It's too dark, and his eyes won't focus. _

_Light footsteps began to follow him, matching each of his steps, and he suddenly hears the sound. His grip around the nameless object tightens automatically._

_The hair on the back of his neck stands up, both in anticipation and fear; out of the corner of his eye, Jack can see a shadow approaching, a dark wisp of smoke with piercing eyes. His throat closes, his body tenses as the shadow, small and nimble, advances towards him._

_He hears the whispers…_

Blood… pain… Conlon… why would… NO… Jacky… Jack… Cowboy… comin'… he's comin'… don't… DON'T… pals… no… blood… cut… pain… Spot… dead… SPOT'S DEA—

_Whirling around, his body reacting before he realizes it, he reaches out with his left hand and he slashes._

_The whispers stop, but the screaming… the screaming just begins._

He's in Brooklyn, sleeping off one hell of a hangover when it happens. No one saw who did it, or how it happened, but when one of the younger boys sounds the alarm, all of Poplar Street shakes. Every single boy, whether they were dressed or just in their union suits, runs out of the Lodging House, following the messenger down to the docks.

Jack stops just long enough to grab his cowboy hat and hike up his pants before following the rest of the Brooklyn newsies out of the house. His head is pounding, the relic of a strange, unforgiving dream lingering in the back of his hazy, liquor-muddled mind, but he runs just as fast as the others.

He isn't fast enough.

He runs down to the docks, down to where Spot Conlon was bent over, silent and stubborn as he clutches his front in visible agony. There's blood all over him, under him, _on him…_

He's dying.

And Jack Kelly watched him die.

One of the crowd, too appalled—too much afraid—by the sight before him, Jack watches as Spot Conlon takes that last shuddering breath before falling forward, dead on the docks.

It's the fall of a king and, for just a moment, the world stops.

Spot's murder, the way his body—suddenly small without his large personality puffing out his chest and keeping that cocky half-grin in place—sprawls out on his precious docks, possessive even in the repose of death… it breaks the spell. Two of the larger boys run forward, checking now to see what had happened, what could have been done.

Far more of the other boys are already leaning over the docks, vomiting the breakfasts they won't have into the East River below.

Suddenly Jack realizes he doesn't belong here. Not in Brooklyn, not in the presence of Spot Conlon's still warm corpse. The blood is everywhere, the scent of death—and _shit_—in the air, and it's all he can do to keep the bile from rising up in his throat.

_First David, now Spot…_

He's running before his brain registers the fast-paced motion of his shaky, trembling legs.

But he stops at the end of the docks, something in him telling him to turn the wrong way. The whispers in his ears, the screams and hollers and retching echoing in his head, he doesn't head back to Manhattan. Something was telling him, something he couldn't explain or even understand, that there was somewhere else for him to go.

It's an alleyway, dark and foreboding at the end of a vacant street. He can't say he's ever been here before but every nerve in his body insists that he's come to the right place.

Hesitant, curious, Jack slows his pace until each step is in rhythm to the pounding of his head. He doesn't know why he's here, why his feet have brought him to this alleyway in the heart of Brooklyn of all places, but that indecision, that confusion, it doesn't last.

His eyes close when he realizes what it was he was meant to see.

The visionary sees everything—but it doesn't mean that he understands it…

Jack Kelly doesn't know where the bloodied knife at his feet came from or how he could have known that it would be in this dark hovel. But that's okay. He couldn't figure how he'd come by that half empty box of matches, either.


	8. choke

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

* * *

**Visionary**

--

_Jack Kelly can't sleep at night anymore._

--

No matter how far he goes, or fast he runs, he's not fast enough. It doesn't mean a thing where he goes or how he tries to hide, he's unsuccessful always, and he's caught almost immediately. There's no reason to run, to hide… unless he can crawl back inside the shell of a man he is, he can never be safe.

Not even in his past, not even in his history, not even in the nightmares that masquerade as pleasant dreams. He can never be safe, he can never be free. They find him, the grab him with icy fingers and the scent of death on their breath, the demons find him, the visions find him and he doesn't have the strength to fight them anymore.

He doubts he ever did.

Lying there, his eyes wide and staring as he watches the gory death of the best boy Brooklyn ever saw flash before him, Jack is awake. It doesn't even take slumber or a blissful concussion anymore to bring about the horrible nightmares, the night terrors that freeze him to the bone. Just being is enough.

The bunkroom is still empty, the others too afraid or too superstitious to share the room with the sallow, wild-eyed Cowboy. His breathing is shallow, his fingers twitching, rubbing anxiously against the coarse sheets on the hard, familiar bunk. Even through his mouth, he can taste the stench that surrounded Spot as he fell. He wants to vomit, but he doesn't have the strength for that, either.

Spot's words come rushing back, the sinister premonition and the foreboding omen he left behind with Jack. You're next.

He doesn't want to believe it… but he does. He always knew that his days were numbered, that every death and every vision brings him one step closer to the time when it would be his turn. No one lives forever, and only the visionary is cursed with watching his own death approach.

Jack Kelly can feel his death approaching.

All his life, from the moment his mother coughed her last breath and his father got carted off to Sing Sing, Jack had one instinct: to run. His legs never stopped moving, whether he was running from his past, running from trouble, running from love… he ran, always two steps ahead of the rest of the world.

But Jack's not running anymore.

Even now, even as he hears a sneaky, quick set of soft shoes tap tap tap-ping their way up the stairs, he doesn't run.

Racetrack would find him, anyhow.

God damn him, he looks just how Jack remembers. One of the first to go, and one of the deaths that hit him the hardest, it calms him considerably to be looking into the wise-cracking face of his old friend. The greasy dark hair, the crooked yellow teeth that stuck out from under a true gambler's grin, the cigar angled out one corner of his mouth… hell, he's even wearing the same plaid vest Jack buried him in.

It strikes him now, as sudden but as certain as anything, that all of this… the headache yesterday, David's pleas for help and Spot's warnings… has led his weary feet to bring him back home, back to the lodging house, just for this meeting with Race. It isn't fate, and it isn't a nightmare. It is happening—and he doesn't know how he feels about it now.

He's still on his bunk, his heart beating as loud as the morning distribution bell. He leans over but, stubborn to a fault and just so damn tired, he barely spares a glance as he mumbles, "What are ya doin' here, Race?"

The answer is obvious, and he knows it already. But he has to ask… he just has to.

"Ain't the better question what are you doin' here, Cowboy?"

It's the voice he remembers. Part smartass, part over intelligent, with just the hint of a bookie preparing to offer a round of bum odds, Race's voice was distinct. It makes him cringe; he feels as if he's been scolded.

"This is my home," Jack says hesitantly, his own voice bordering on a whine. He's wondered the same thing countless times before, when the memories were too much, and the whiskey too weak, but he always comes back to one answer. With a grimace and a brace against his bunk as he sits up, he gives it to Race. "This is the only home I got."

"You can't stay."

The flat answer cuts him more effectively than Spot's mocking taunts. Racetrack knows him better than all the others; he knows exactly what to say to get a rise out of the boy.

Gritting his teeth, swinging his feet over the edge of the bunk as he meets Race's dark eyes with a dare, he snaps, "Why not?"

Dark lingers in the room, despite the sunlight that filters in through the cracked window. It's early afternoon at best, but there's a chill whipping around the room that makes Jack believe that another summer night has fooled him. It's dark, and the darkness centers on the short newsboy standing before him.

Racetrack Higgins was never so dark, and the fire in his eyes keeps Jack up high. He's frightening, absolutely terrifying and, for the first time since the nightmares began, he knows that there is still more for him to see. He hasn't seen half the horror this world—this world or the next—has to offer, but Race… there's a depth in his answering glare.

Jack might be the visionary, but it's Race who's seen things he shouldn't.

"This ain't your home no more," he quips, his words coming free and easy. They're soft, so soft that it's easy to miss the snarl on his lips. "You haunt it, Jack, and your presence won't leave, but you can't stay. You cling to it, your fingers scrabbling to keep the grip, but it ain't yours. You don't belong here."

His words hit him like a slap across the face. It's as if Race is in his mind, telling him all the thoughts he's afraid to think, the thoughts he banishes away like the past he won't admit to. It's Francis Sullivan who doesn't belong, but Jack Kelly owns the bunkroom.

Doesn't he?

Anger fueling his words, he feels an overwhelming heat in his face. Like flames licking at his face, burning away his flesh, he wonders if this is how it felt when David perished. He wonders and then, turning back on Race, he sneers.

"Don't tell me that, Race. You don't know. I've been here longer than anybody else. As long as I can pay my fare," he snaps back, all too aware that he doesn't remember the last time he didn't drink his last nickel away, "I can stay."

Removing the smelly stub of a cigar from between clenched teeth, yellow stained teeth, Race gestures with it around him. The dark smoke follows the trajectory of his pudgy hand, leaving a thick ring in its wake. "Look around you, Jack. See that bunk over there? See the guy sleepin' on it?"

As if Race's voice is a lure, and the wave of his hand the string, Jack feels his head jerk and pull and turn around without him ever giving the conscious command. He follows the fiery embers of the cigar, the form of a sleeping boy snoring on one particular bunk.

Vaguely, he tries to remember when the dark-haired boy joined him in the bunkroom; mere seconds ago, he knew he was alone but now he is sure that the boy has been sleeping for hours.

Sleeping… he wishes he could be that lucky.

"Yeah. It's Skittery."

"No it ain't," Race counters sharply, jabbing the air viciously with the cigar. "That's some kid they call Aces. That's his bunk now. Skittery's dead, Jack." He pauses, his lips curved in a cruel smirk to rival Spot Conlon's. "You killed him."

"I did not!"

The denial is out before he even understands the implications behind Race's accusation.

"Don't lie."

"I ain't lyin'!"

Placing his cigar back at home at the corner of his mouth, Race sighs. "Fine, have it your way," he says, holding his hands out in a surrendering gesture. But he hasn't blinked, and his eyes are even fiercer, even more vivid than before. His pupil an inky black, Jack finds himself staring relentlessly at the orb-shape, hypnotized. It's only when Race's voice, conversational and friendly, jerks him out of his trance. "How 'bout ol' Kloppy, Jack? He talk to ya today?"

The heat is gone, and the chill is chilling him down to his bones. Suspicion racks him, his fingers clenching and unclenching nervously as he lowers his voice. "I told him I'd pay him up later. What, ya collectin' for him now?"

"He's dead, too, Jack. He ain't collectin' shit. And me… I'm dead. Don't ya remember?" With a vicious pull, he reaches up to his collar. The fabric tears easily in his childlike grasp, revealing a thick chest and—

—and an ugly purple-green-black mark that circles the width of Racetrack's entire neck. Painful marks, thick marks… strangulation marks.

"You killed me, too, Jack."

He wants to vomit, he wants to avert his gaze, he wants to run. But he doesn't. He can't. Even more than before, even stronger than the pull of his voice and his eyes combined, Jack can't turn away from the horror of the mark on Racetrack's throat.

"Race, what happened to ya?"

"Can't ya see?"

Does the visionary see everything?

Oh God, what he wouldn't give for a cigarette.

He's on his feet, the shock of Race's reveal enough to propel him out of his bunk and back onto the floor. There's no pain as his knees bend, the soles of his feet slapping against the hard ground. His mouth is dry, and he'd kill—again, or for the first time—for a tumbler of good, strong whiskey. There's no hope of him getting around Race and getting to a bar… but he could nick another smoke alright.

Skittery is right there, sound asleep as usual. He could sneak one right out of his night table… but, no. He can see it now. That's not Skittery—Skittery's long-johns were pink, his hair a tousled, dark mess. This boy isn't as thin or as tall or as lanky as Skittery, and his hair is a fairer shade.

It isn't Skittery… so what happened to him?

Who is that? Who the hell is Aces?

"You killed me, Jack," Race tells him with something akin to relish. He's barely speaking with any volume but Jack hears him just the same. The accusation is like a brand, a burn deep into his soul. Race could think the lie, he could write it down, and Jack would flinch, drawing away from the cruelty and the pain. "Like you killed Dave and Sarah and little Les. Like you killed Spot. Like you killed Skittery and Kloppman and… and Mush and Kid Blink… all of the fellas. And like me, Jack. Like you killed me!"

"I didn't… I couldn't—"

"But you did," the other boy says matter-of-factly. He removes his cigar from his mouth, the smoke black and thick and all-consuming. Silver ash drops to the floor, disappearing in its descent. "You could."

"But I never meant—"

"You're next."

Like an unsteady house of cards built on a wobbly surface, one sentence—one push—and he is crumbling. Spot Conlon's warning echoing in his ears, he knows that his premonition was right.

Spot isn't the angel of death. Race is.

"There's only way to make it stop," Race says, his voice a purr and his dark eyes, his dead eyes, flashing in anticipation, flashing in revenge. "Do you want the dreams to stop, Jack? Do you want the nightmares to end, the visions? Do you want to sleep again?"

"Oh, yes," he sighs, relief flooding his body and a crooked half-smile coming to his face.

Racetrack is his pal. He's not there to hurt, he's there to help.

He's there to stop the nightmares…

"Here, then. Let me."

With the cigar back in place between his molars, Race's hands are at Jack's waist, working on the knot that keeps the rope belt in place. Looking down, his hands useless things that hang at his side, he knows that something isn't right, that Race never does anything for anyone without a price, but he's tired… he's so tired.

The belt is in Race's hand, lovingly caressed between his ink-stained fingers. With a curious spark of intent in those same dead eyes, he loops the rope around the taller boy's neck. Keeping it there, holding tight to the frayed ends, he leads Jack over to his old bunk and pushes him gently, forcing him to lie on his back.

So tired…

"Close your eyes, Jack," he commands soothingly, his voice strangely unfamiliar at this proximity. It sounds like his mother talking to him, his father scolding him, David's speeches, Spot's words, Sarah's songs—it sounds like all of it, and none of it. And it sounds like home. "It's time to go to sleep," Racetrack adds, his hands already beginning to pull on the rope.

So he does. And, for the first time in a long time, Jack Kelly sleeps without a single dream—or nightmare.


	9. die

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

* * *

**Visionary**

--

_Jack Kelly can't sleep at night anymore._

--

Racetrack Higgins was standing in the back entrance of the Newsboy's Lodging House on Duane Street when Spot Conlon found him there, smoking a cigar and staring thoughtfully up into the bright summer sky.

Clearing his throat, he joined the short Manhattan newsie along the edge of the street. Not quite meeting the other boy's face, he followed his gaze, nearly blinded by the sun. "I came as soon as I heard," he said out of the corner of his mouth. His voice was steady, cocky and sure. He could have been talking about anything at that moment. "I couldn't believe it when one of my birdies told me. Jack? Doin' himself in like that? I never would've thought I'd live to see the day."

Race nodded, keeping his head tilted back. "Skittery was the one who found him. Poor mook forgot his smokes in the bunkroom when he was out sellin' and couldn't spare the pennies to get some fresh tobacco. Walked all the way back to Duane Street and what did he find but Jack swinging there. His eyes were bulging out of his head, his tongue purple. Poor bastard hung himself with the same rope he wore around his waist. Kloppy had to give Skitts half a bottle of brandy to keep him from losin' it."

Spot Conlon, known as one of the most feared and respected newsies in all of New York, flinched at Race's callous description. Poor Skittery Daniels. He went in for a smoke and came out with a complex. "And he didn't tell no one what he was doin'? He just… he just went and jumped?"

"He wasn't the same the since the fire, Spot," Race said, his stubby finger absently shaking the cigar in his hand. It was a whole cigar, one he had held onto for a special occasion. He didn't feel right chewing on the ends of somebody else's thrown away cigar today. "Not since Davey and Sarah… ya know. He really liked those Jacobs kids and then for them to bite it like that? It hit him hard, and I thought he'd go runnin' off to that dream place o' his. Santa Fe, right? But he didn't. He stuck it out, pretendin' he was alright for the first coupla weeks. But then the dreams started…"

Spot nodded in turn. He knew about the dreams. Jack made his way into Brooklyn once, a couple of weeks back, convinced that Spot was dead. Even when he appeared on the docks, alive and scornful of Jack's drunken babbling, the older boy had refused to believe his own eyes. He ran away—and Spot hadn't stopped him.

"I'd heard that he went queer in the end. I wanted to stop by, maybe knock some sense into his head, but it wasn't really my place. Maybe if he was one of my guys but Jacky-Boy… he knew what he was doin', I thought."

"Queer ain't the word for it, Spot. He started to think he was seein' things, started to think that everyone around him was droppin' like flies. We tried… me, Crutchy, Blink… even ol' Mush… we tried, but it never helped him. Just got drunker and drunker until he stopped comin' 'round as much. And now this. Shit."

Tapping his fingers in agitation against the head of his cane, Spot found himself frowning. "I just… I guess I just can't believe it, Race. Jack Kelly, dead by his own hand. I'd say he was a coward but, hell, maybe it was for the best."

Racetrack shook his head, taking the moment to draw a long, remorseful drag off of his cigar. He wasn't morbid, and he wasn't fascinated by his old friend's death—but he wondered if there was something else any of them could have done. He sighed.

"Ya know," he said, a tinge of regret lacing his heavily-accented voice, "I should've figured somethin' was up when the poor bum stopped sleepin' at night."

* * *

_fin._

* * *


End file.
